


The Welcoming Sea

by glasgow_blue



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:16:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1581401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasgow_blue/pseuds/glasgow_blue





	The Welcoming Sea

Title: The Welcoming Sea  
Word Count: 515  
Disclaimer: I am making this shit up.  
Archive: Please ask.

This is a Blue Plate Special for the lovely [](http://queenofalostart.livejournal.com/profile)[**queenofalostart**](http://queenofalostart.livejournal.com/) , who wanted _colors, silence, and "viggo with a side of dom"._

Dom was there, I swear, but [](http://diavestra.livejournal.com/profile)[**diavestra**](http://diavestra.livejournal.com/) made me cut him out in the beta.

A reporter once asked Viggo how he managed to find the characters he becomes, how he pulls them from inside his own psyche. She wanted to hear about childhood traumas turned outwards, about triumphs repurposed, about heartaches molded to suit.

This couldn't be further from his truth. Viggo works from the outside in. He reads and absorbs. He finds objects and carries them in his pockets, pulling their energy into his own until each man he plays has been grown from nothing into whole. It's a consensual possession and Viggo shucks his own soul to allow others time in his body.

Problem is, sometimes, they're not so keen on letting go. He's haunted by these men--these kings and cowboys, these hit men and fallen angels. Some of them assimilate nicely and fall into place within his core. Those men help Viggo to walk a little taller and he is grateful for the wisdom that they bring. Others play dirty and wake him from sound slumber with cravings and demands. These are the times when his skin is not big enough--when one body holds many souls and all are at war for a piece of ground to stake as their own.

He comes to the sea, then. He wades out in the morning light and floats on his back with arms and legs extended--a portrait of the vitruvian man giving himself over to Poseidon's mercy.

In his heart of hearts, Viggo is a Plainsman. His gait is long and rolling--the better to cover ground--and he believes that a dome of velvet stars makes the best sort of blanket. He chews on pencils and paint brushes not from nervous habit, but because they are more readily at hand than stalks of prairie grass.

At sea, the sky curves above him in a million shades of blue and, below, there are a million more greens that roll and swell like the grasses of high summer. And the red of all his blood spilled out would be but a speck in the company of them all. These hues are the palette of Viggo's existence and he mixes them with broad strokes of hands and feet against the waves.

Here, he can sort through things--can sift through the voices and work the puzzle to completion. Here, there is the silence of the sea broken only by the thump of his own heart rising in his ears. These men, they are incorporeal and he is not. Here, he can drown the ones who are in need of it.

There is no grief. He does not mourn the drowning men. They, like Viggo, know that life is transient and that everyone will come to pass. And even the worst of them are glad of the time they are given to walk the earth; are grateful to the man who shares their breath.

They fall away from him, slipping into the depths, and the red of their blood stirs into the sky and the waves, leaving Viggo only streaks of silvery grey to mark their passing.


End file.
